


The Mystery of the Disappearing Girls

by kissing2cousins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballroom, Crossdressing, Dress, Drugging, Drugs, Kidnapping, Other, hedgegroves, john makes bad life choices, missing girls, sherlock convincing john to do things he doesn't want to do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 06:57:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17442092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissing2cousins/pseuds/kissing2cousins
Summary: Sherlock is investigating a new case and needs an accomplice of a particular size. John Watson fits that bill perfectly. Persuaded against his better judgement to cooperate with Sherlock's crazy scheme, John Watson finds himself compromised, in more ways than one.





	The Mystery of the Disappearing Girls

 

 

 

 

John scowled darkly and crossed his arms as he leaned against the doorframe to Sherlock’s room. “No.” That was all he would say on the subject. There was absolutely nothing in this world that could change his mind about this. There was no bloody way he would be caught dead in _that_.

“I need you there.” Sherlock didn’t pause in his rummaging through the wardrobe as he spoke. His statement was muttered distractedly, as though he were running through a variety of different situations, not a single thought on the position he was currently trying to put John in.

“Oh, I’ll go. But not like that.” He refused to even look in the direction of the monstrosity that the detective had laid out. He wasn’t going to wear it, so there was no point in looking again. Unfortunately, he had a good memory, and there was no way that he would be able to unsee that atrocity.

Sherlock sighed, finally pausing in his rummaging to look over at John, two neckties clasped loosely in one hand. “It is the only reasonable way to get in without too much notice.” He bent back into the wardrobe before drawing out a tailed tuxedo this time. “I don’t see what the issue is.”

Clenching his jaw, John struggled to contain his anger with the man. “I am not wearing a bloody dress!” He went so far as to stomp his foot down, trying to get the man’s attention. He had the feeling that it didn’t work when Sherlock didn’t even blink.

“I don’t see the problem.” Sherlock turned once more and laid the finery out on his bed before glancing at John. “It’s measured to your size, so it will fit you fine.”

John gnashed his teeth. The calm tone the other man used was not helping to keep his anger in check. “Then why don’t you wear the bloody thing?” he snarled, arm flinging out to point at the horrid article of clothing.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “As I said, it’s sized for you. Do try and keep up.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Somehow, John found himself wearing the bloody dress. He wasn’t even sure how the other man had convinced him to put the thing on, but he had, so here John was. It was awkward and tight in all the wrong places. He shifted uncomfortably once more, absently plucking at the pale-yellow material. The worst part about this entire thing was the sleeves. They were puffy.

He, John Hamish Watson, was wearing a puffy-sleeved dress. How had his life become like this? Where had he gone so wrong that he had begun travelling down this road? John shook his head, trying to rid himself of the self-pity. He grimaced at the feel of the wig’s hair brushing over his cheeks and exposed shoulders.

It was a good thing that it was dark in the taxi. That was the only reason John was able to pass as a woman. He had too many lines, too man wrinkles and too much stubble to resemble anything other than a poorly outfitted cross-dresser.

“Relax Jean, you look fine.”

John growled at the other man. “Do _not_ call me that.” There was Sherlock, sitting calm-as-you-please, in light slacks and a tailored coat. He even had a bloody top hat and cane sitting between them. How come he got to wear something nice and simple?

 _Right, because I’m the one who knows how to keep my bloody mouth_ shut, John thought bitterly. That trait, in the detective's mind, appeared to be distinctly a female one. “Bloody bugger,” He tried to sigh, but only got his lungs half full before the evil contraption of a corset restricted any deeper breaths.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Uncomfortable, John stood at the far end of the large, richly decorated hall. It was lit with hundreds of glass candles, illuminating the lavishly decorated room in what was supposed to be a soft, warm glow. Instead, it was gloomy. He huddled near one of the corners, trying to use the shadows to hide his features. John did not want to risk getting close to anyone, lest they realize that he was not like them.

He had no idea how to act around the tittering girls and chuckling men who wandered around pretending that they were from two hundred years ago. It made no sense to him. Why not live in the here and now? If nothing else, the clothes fit much better. He shifted again, spine already beginning to ache. His thoughts were interrupted by a stranger stepping up beside him.

“My lady, you appear lonely.” The man held himself with the aloof air of someone who would never lower himself to menial labour. He was thin and tall, but Sherlock still had a couple of inches on him, with pale slicked back hair. “Might I take you for around in the gardens?” The man sounded like a pompous ass.

John’s first instinct was to tell the man to bugger off but caught himself before he could dismiss the stranger. Maybe he could find some information about the missing girls instead of standing here like an idiot. It had to be better than waiting for Sherlock to reappear at some point.

He fumbled for something to say that sounded equally pompous and old fashioned. When the seconds began to stretch, and he had come up with nothing, John let out a low sigh, giving up on sophistication. “Thank you. I would like that.” He pitched his voice higher, the words coming out breathy due to the corset of death.

When the man held out his arm in a dramatic fashion, John just blinked at it a few times, not knowing what he was supposed to do. Slowly, he placed his white-gloved hand over the stranger’s own. John felt like an idiot and wished he was at home watching the Telly instead of here.

The man laughed lightly and shifted to tuck John’s hand in at his elbow. Then they began walking, the stranger smiling and nodding to a few people that passed near them. John struggled to not stumble in the heels as they moved towards the large, ornate door that stood open on the far side of the ballroom. The warm night air greeted them as they stepped silently onto the balcony, which led down to a garden maze.

As they approached the descending stairs, the man drew them to a stop. He slowly turned John to face him. “Might I ask for your name, my lady?” The question was soft as he tried to lean in closer and lock eyes with John.

Immediately John looked down, letting the guy get an eyeful of his wig. “J-” He paused with a wince. “Jean.” He couldn’t believe he was going along with that ridiculous name or the idiotic plan. This had to be the worst one that the genius had ever come up with.

“Lady Jean, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He took a step back and lifted John’s trapped hand to his mouth. John couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose when the man kissed the back of his gloved hand. “I am Lord Francis,” he introduced himself as he straightened with a flourish.

John’s lips compressed into a thin line before he hastily smoothed out his expression. He fought the urge to rub the back of his hand against his skirt in disgust. Thankfully, the man didn’t try to mouth any other part of John as they turned and began to descend the steps.

The many layers of skirts hampered John's steps. After the third stumble, he lifted them, realizing that must be the reason so many women did that. _No wonder girls like to wear trousers; these things are death traps._ Somehow, he reached the entrance of the hedge maze without breaking his neck.

Now that they were utterly alone, John wasn’t sure how to bring up the missing girls unobtrusively. At least, not in this garb. They ended up walking in silence for some time before the man, Francis, had them sit on a low stone bench.

“Do you mind if I smoke my pipe out here?” he asked courteously.

John shrugged as much as the tight dress would allow. He refused to look at the man, wishing that he were home, or with Sherlock, not wearing this bloody awful contraption.

Francis pulled a long pipe out of his vest and packed it with quick ease before lighting it with a torch. He puffed on it a few times before holding it out courteously. “Lady Jean, would you care to try some? It is a lovely blend that I have specially made.”

John wrinkled his nose. “No. Thank you,” he amended after his quick refusal. Why did he have to play the role of a girl? He all but ignored the man and stared into the night. The hedges blended almost seamlessly with the darkness surrounding them.

He coughed and waved his hand in front of his face when he drew in a breath of the sweetly scented smoke. He’d had enough. John turned to face the man, intent on telling him that he was going back to the house. Another cloud of sweet smoke wafted over him. Unable to stop, he coughed, though they were weak, the bloody corset containing him.

John stood abruptly, his balance slightly off on his heels as he turned away. “I’m going now,” he muttered softly, not bothering to glance back.

“Of course, my lady.”

The man stepped up beside him, and once more the heavy aroma enveloped him. John’s hands were slow to rise and brush away the lingering smoke that drifted on the air like spiderwebs in the forest. He began to walk, pace slow as he moved through the maze. He had no idea where he was going, but that was ok. He drifted from one pathway to the next, his feet almost wanting to float away.

John cocked his head as he tried to frown. Instead, he found himself sight softly, his gloved fingers brushing along the perfectly cut hedges as they wandered. Eventually, John found himself stopping. He glanced back at the man who had been following along silently. His form weaved and coiled even as he stood still.

“I’m lost,” John whispered the words calmly, waiting for the other man to fix the problem.

“That’s alright. I shall remedy that.”

John did not object when Lord Francis gently grasped his elbow, attention already shifting to how the hedges danced closer to him with every breath. Then they were moving again, and John fixated on the feel of the cobbles under his uncomfortable shoes.

The rustle of wind through the maze sent sparks of colour dancing around him. John smiled and reached out to catch a tendril of blue snaking past him. He lost his balance, but warm steel wrapped around his waist, pulling him against something bigger, something that coiled around him, preventing him from walking.

With a frown, John wiggled, startled back to stillness when air puffed like the lion’s growl against his ear. Distantly, John knew that something wasn’t entirely as it should be. He needed to go- “-Home.”

“Soon,” Francis promised. “Come with me.”

John would have shrugged if he remembered what a shrug was. Instead, he let his shoulders bobble. The movement shifted his arm. He lifted a hand, staring at it in amazement. When his fingers twitched, he huffed in surprise, bringing them closer to his face. Cross-hatched lines twisted over his skin.

“Come, my lovely Jean, time to bring you home.”

The promise of home pulled John’s focus back to the man. He tried to move forward, and Francis let him, maintain his grip around John’s artificially narrowed waist.

“Home,” he agreed.

He walked until the man stopped him. John blinked, leaning forward to look at his reflection in the shiny paint of the car. “Oh,” he whispered, his fingers trying to capture the shifting picture. No matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t grasp it. John began to snicker and abruptly sat down, uncaring of the man now cursing behind him. He touched the wheel that absorbed all the light, fingers rubbing back and forth over its side.

“Damn it, Jean,” the man hissed. He grabbed John’s arm to haul him up.

“No,” John muttered as he stepped on the hem his dress. The action resulted in him falling over. He snickered again as he rubbed his cheek into the ground. Small things poked at his face, little sparks of ice against his chilled skin. He wondered why they felt that way. Ice would melt and become wet. What did wet feel like?

“Want Sherlock.” John closed his eyes as his world slanted, or maybe that was him simply rolling onto his back. “Sherly! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Quiet!”

“No!” he laughed, the sounds from his mouth fluttered like music. “Riddle me this, Sherlock!” he called to the night sky, certain that if the genius was under the same sky, he would hear. “What looks like a girl, sounds like a girl, but isn’t a girl?”

John waited, counting his breaths. Maybe. He lost count after two. “What comes after two?”

“Wait, you aren’t a girl?” A voice above him hissed.

John opened an eye, wondering when he’d lost sight of the sky. “I’m not a girl?”

“So, you are?” spluttered the other man, as confused as John felt.

“I am?” he replied, echoing the confusion.

“Are you?!” Francis demanded brusquely.

“Am I?” John clutched at his head, not sure what was going on. He pulled at the heavy strands, wondering when he’d grown his hair out. It felt thick in his fingers, like straw. Maybe he was on a farm. Why would he be there?

“A girl!”

“What?”

“Answer the question!” came back the furious howl.

John blinked, and then blinked again. He licked his lips and opened his mouth. “Yes.” With a bob of his head, he smiled. “Yes, yes, yes.” Maybe that was the right answer. He couldn’t remember the question. When the man relaxed above him, John was sure he had gotten it right.

“Ok, Jean, up we get.” Francis hooked his arms under John’s armpits and hauled him bodily up. This time he held on until John had his feet firmly on the ground. “Time to go home.”

“No.” John shook his head. “I want Sherlock.” Sherlock knew what he was forgetting. Sherlock knew things that John didn’t even know, too.

“God,” the man muttered. “No one else gave me this kind of trouble.” Louder he said, “Sherlock is at home, get in the car.”

“No, no, no…” He had forgotten again. What was he talking about? Leaning against the car, John folded his arms. His attention focused on the silky material against his ribs, and he looked down. He was wearing a dress. John felt like he should know why he was wearing a dress, it wasn’t like he usually went around in them.

“I hope that is enough for you, Detective Lestrade. Your abductor in the process of abducting.”

Francis spun around at the voices. “Excuse me? I am taking my drunk friend home.”

John crumpled back to the ground as he squinted at the approaching feet. There were lots, more than five, or maybe that was two? He didn’t think counting was supposed to be this confusing. “Sherlock?”

Two of the feet stopped in front of him. “I am here.”

John plucked at the dirty yellow material pooling around him. “Why am I wearing a dress?”

“Because I asked you to.”

“Oh.” That made sense. John’s head bobbed again. This time the world slid, or maybe that was him. All he knew was that everything got dark and he couldn’t think anymore.

 

~Fin~


End file.
